


maketh my spirit to shine

by miabicicletta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Case, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 03:06:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve a sleepy pathologist to see to bed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	maketh my spirit to shine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Liathwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liathwen/gifts).



> I finished a thing and it happens to be the birthday of brilliant, fabulous [Liathwen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Liathwen/pseuds/Liathwen). Happy birthday dear! Enjoy some unbeta-ed fluff. Title comes from this great old Warren Zevon tune. It’s lovely and childish and moving and sad. Lots of rather Sherlock-y things. [Happy-sad cover here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=766kQ8OTWe8).

Lestrade barked out a long laugh. Mary snorted into her pint. Sally thumped her fist on the pub's worn table. Molly’s head shook as she laugh-cried into her hands. As John spun on him, gesticulating wildly, even Sherlock couldn’t keep himself from chuckling.

“And then, _and then_ ,” John Watson exclaimed over the din of his companions, “he’s got the nerve to accuse _me_ of having forgotten the bloody keys!”

“In my defense,” Sherlock smiled, leaning head in hand, “you _do_ have a terrible memory.”

“Shut up, genius,” John said with good-natured menace, wielding a chip threateningly.

Mary beamed and leaned her head on her husband's shoulder. “Ah, you two. Match made in heaven.”

Sally said something and Mary and John laughed. Lestrade scoffed. Molly tipped her head back against the high booth. Her eyelashes fluttered. Sherlock curled his arm around her shoulder along the seat-backs; Molly stretched her neck, side to side. Her hair tickled his arm where he’d rolled his shirtsleeves. He found it distracting. Pleasantly so.

“...really bloody lucky?” John asked.

Sherlock turned his head, finding his best friend waiting for a response. He’d not been listening. An amused, expectant expression crossed John’s face. Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

John failed to hide a smile in his glass. “Nothing,” he said in the way that meant its opposite.

Sally Donovan glanced at her watch. “Hell,” she swore, looking at time. “Time for me to call it. Got an early day tomorrow. Nice work, boys. Keep it up, will ya? Looking at early retirement at this pace.”

The small party emptied drinks and collected coats, spilling out onto the pavement. A coolish breeze stirred the heady air, alive with the damp, green smells of spring. He breathed deeply.

Molly exchanged plans with Sally for the coming week—something about spinning, by which he assumed she meant the form of indoor cycling as opposed to the manufacturing of textiles. They exchanged potential dates and times, discussing. A cab rolled to a stop.

John gestured to the door. “Mind if we–?”

Sherlock nodded. “All yours.”

John hesitated. “It’s fine if you want this one. Bit of a hike to Baker Street, even at this hour.”

To the side, he watched as Molly yawned, adding her plans with Sally into her phone. Sherlock waved him off. “I’ve a sleepy pathologist to see to bed.” Instantly, Mary’s mouth ticked up. He caught the delighted smirk and rolled his eyes. He threw her a derisive glare. “Do grow up, Morstan.”

She made a sour face. “God, I hope not.”

“Night, mate,” John waved. He gave a leery wink.

“Have a _lovely_ evening, Sherlock.”

“Childish,” he muttered.

“What are you on about?” Molly asked, looking up from her phone.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied, beckoning another cab to the kerb.

Sally Donovan and Lestrade waved in parting. “Always a pleasure, Sherlock. Good work, Moll.”

Molly raised her fist in triumph. “Go team.”

Twenty minutes later, the cab rolled up in front of her Shoreditch apartment—a tidy divided Georgian rowhouse whose quiet, if drafty, third floor flat Molly had occupied for several years before the neighborhood had become fashionable with London’s hipsters and technorati.

“C’mon,” Molly said, climbing the steps. “Too late.”

“Too late?”

“To still be awake.”

He glanced at his phone. “It’s half-one.”

“There you go.” Her large eyes glimmered. The insolent ghost of a grin haunted her mouth. “Already tomorrow, isn’t it?”

He made no protest, following her up the steps to the third floor, where she opened the door to her sitting room. As Sherlock shed his coat, Toby pawed at his trousers. Sherlock reached down and lifted him up, rubbing his ears. Toby purred. Molly always complained about her cat’s stoic, disinterested nature, but Toby had only ever been friendly to him. “Ungrateful beast,” she said (with affection). “Not sure which of you is more spoiled.”

“The one who is coddled and cooed-over and demands to sleep in your bed,” he replied. Molly’s only response was to give him a pointed look. He caught her meaning, and smirked despite himself.

Molly craned her arms over her neck. Through the open door of her bedroom, she peeled off her clothes (not that he watched). Padding to the washroom she splashed her face. She brushed her teeth. Sherlock set Toby down, knowing now would be the time—

“You don't have to.” She caught his eye over her shoulder. "Leave."

He hovered at the door, leaning against the jamb. “No?”

“No,” she admonished. "You know you're always welcome."

“Oh. Good.”

He found the set of clean pyjama bottoms he kept in her spare drawer. He changed his clothes, watching as Molly entered her bedroom once more. She sat on the bed, brushing out her hair.

“Nice work tonight,” he said.

“Nice work yourself.” She met his eye in the mirror above her dresser.

“Adequate; not a particularly trying case.”

“Greg appreciated it. And John and Mary. It means a lot, to them. Being asked to be a part of what you do.” He did not miss the subtext.

“Does it?” 

Her eyes flicked up. Molly held his gaze. She nodded. “Very much, Sherlock."

“I'm glad.”

In the loo, he brushed his teeth; turned out the lights. When he returned to her door, Molly had drawn the covers down on both sides of her bed. “Just get in. We’re both knackered and I’m well aware of how you feel about my sofa. Your virtue is safe,” she added, wry.

He slid under the covers as she turned out the lamp. “Hmm.” He curled an arm around her waist and yanked her close. She made a squeak of protest and amusement, poking him in the rib before laying her head near his shoulder. Her proximity was both stirring and calming. Strange. “I’m not entirely sure about that,” he said into the darkness.

“‘Good,’” Molly parroted in her best impression of him. He chuckled. He felt her smile and, as her exhalations slowed, evened, felt her fall asleep smiling.

Sherlock Holmes did not sleep. He laid awake, listening to the sound of Molly Hooper breathing. He could feel the warmth of her body, and the surprising softness of her skin. He studied the tense and flex of her fingers against the sheet, listened to the soft murmurs she made in dreams. The evening's laughter echoed in the long silence of his mind palace. He never thought anyone was truly capable of this, least of all himself.

For once, he was happy— shockingly; utterly—to have been wrong.

* * *

_The moon has a face_  
_And it smiles on the lake_  
_And causes the ripples in time._  
_I'm lucky to be here_  
_With someone I like_  
_Who maketh my spirit to shine._


End file.
